Time Stops
by roktavor
Summary: There's something very wrong with Buccellati. Abbacchio notices.


**A/N:** For BruAbba week day 7: free day!

This oneshot is pulling double duty as the first fill for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card - I hope that's okay. It's for the Definitely Just A Cold (ie: affected person downplaying a major ailment) square.

It's also squeezed into the canon timeline, during/after the Clash/Talking Heads fight aaand the Notorious B.I.G. fight as well. Idk if the anime will change anything, so for the record this is made to fit into the manga timeline as best I could.

Warning for MAJOR PART 5 SPOILERS ahead.

* * *

 **Time Stops**

There's something very wrong with Buccellati, and Abbacchio first notices this on the floor of a restaurant in Venezia, hands pressed over his own sliced open throat.

See, he's trying not to bleed out, here – while also distracted by the fact that Buccellati is…very definitely _not_ bleeding.

…It's stupid, probably, to realize someone else isn't okay while you yourself are actively dying. But that's how it happens. In that moment where Abbacchio's head is swirling with pain and confusion his eyes latch on to Buccellati's leg, and stay there even as Buccellati and Mista shout after Narancia, who is apparently running off.

He can't stare long, though, on account of his vision going fuzzy. That might have something to do with the sheer volume of blood he's leaking.

Trying to press his hands in tighter only causes them to slip against the wound, and he winces.

…Why the fuck isn't Buccellati bleeding? That cut went pretty deep, right? Abbacchio hadn't seen much blood. Mista is bleeding. Or he was. Abbacchio assumes he still is – like a _normal_ person. Like _Abbacchio_ is. Like Buccellati _should_ be.

"Holy shit, Abbacchio –!"

That's Mista's voice, but blurred vision suggests that it's Buccellati crouched in front of Abbacchio right now. Another set of hands are overtop of his own, pressing firm, and Abbacchio blinks into pools of brilliant blue.

He wants to question Buccellati about the whole 'not bleeding' thing, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. All he gets is the taste of blood.

That's funny – his throat can't be _that_ damaged, can it?

"Mista," Buccellati's voice has that certain edge to it that it gets when one (or more) of them is in danger, "where's Giorno?"

"I – I dunno!" And Mista sure does sound shocked to realize this.

(It's no surprise to Abbacchio, though, that Giorno isn't around the one time that he sure as fuck would love him to be.)

"Dammit." Bruno's hands shift against Abbacchio's on his throat, and it _hurts_ , what the hell is he doing? Doesn't he know it's better to keep still and apply pressure? "Abbacchio – _Abbacchio_ , move your hands."

Now Abbacchio's fuzzy vision reveals Sticky Fingers hovering alongside Buccellati.

Oh, right.

Zippers.

He lets his hands slip away and fall to his sides. No sooner are they gone then Buccellati's hands – shadowed by Sticky Fingers' – move back in, and there's the unmistakable sound of a zipper accompanied by a brief, pinching influx of pain.

And it's only now that he _can_ breathe that Abbacchio realizes he couldn't before. He fingers over the golden zipper at his throat as he hauls metallic-flavored air into his lungs. _Holy shit_ indeed.

"There," Bruno says with a curt nod. The word leaves him on a huff, but the breath sounds…unnatural…? Forced?

Maybe Abbacchio is reaching here, after seeing one thing that doesn't add up. Or maybe his senses are still fogged from blood loss.

His throat hurts like a bitch, at any rate, but at least he's not bleeding out on the tasteful stone flooring anymore. "Th…" he tries, words fizzling out into a coughing fit, and now there's _more_ blood in his mouth. " _Thanks_ ," he forces out.

From the corner of his eye he catches Mista wincing at the sound of it, and doesn't blame him. His voice sounds rough (which is putting it gently) and it feels even worse than that.

But Buccellati looks relieved to hear it, regardless. The lines of his face are a bit more relaxed than before.

"Buccellati, do you want me to –"

"Hey!" Whatever Mista was about to offer is cut off by Narancia's return as he comes lumbering in from the plaza with fanfare. "Hey, I defeated the enemy! Giorno helped! We're in the clear!"

They _sure do_ look triumphant, Abbacchio thinks, what with Giorno all _limp in Narancia's arms_ , and the both of them _bleeding_ _from the neck_.

Absolute winners, obviously.

"What the hell?!" Mista is on them right away, of course. He scurries toward them, only to back away just as fast so he can right a chair for Narancia to dump Giorno on. "What happened?" His hands are on Giorno, now, patting his face – probably to try and rouse him.

"We won!" Narancia emphasizes, a wide grin on his face and hands on his hips now that he's been divested of his burden.

Abbacchio raises both eyebrows at him. That'll have to do in place of a smart comment. Damn his garbled throat.

"You're sure the coast is clear?" As he stands, Buccellati makes to brush himself off, stopping when he realizes his hands are still covered in Abbacchio's blood. It's wet and dripping, and he stares down at his hands with an unreadable expression for half a moment before snapping out of it.

The moment doesn't get past Abbacchio, though. He fixes his gaze on Bruno, watching as he takes the couple steps to the others. (He'd get up and join the party, too, but his head is still spinning.)

"Absolutely!" Narancia's giving a thumbs-up, Aerosmith's radar over his eye. He continues to be all smiles. "Shot them both full of holes."

Buccellati, via Sticky Fingers, zips up the gaping wound in Giorno's neck. "Good. Keep watch."

"Got it!"

Giorno jerks into awareness, then, abrupt and punctual. His barely-bleary eyes blink open as he gently pushes Mista's hands away from his face, and he's already got Gold Experience healing him and everything – even as he looks around to assess the situation.

 _Little overachiever_ , Abbacchio thinks with a bitter note, stuck sitting on the ground.

"You good, Giorno?" Mista asks, despite the obvious answer.

But Giorno nods at him anyway, swapping the zipper on Mista's arm for flesh. He heals Narancia next, and because Abbacchio is watching closely, he notices the way Giorno's eyes catch on Buccellati for a split second before passing him by.

"Mista," Buccellati is saying, but Abbacchio's view of what he's doing is cut off when Giorno crouches in front of him, "get in the turtle and tell Trish we're heading out, and to stay put until I say. We'll leave as soon as I get cleaned up."

Ah, right, because he's still got Abbacchio's blood all over him and all. But not _his_ _own_ blood, Abbacchio remembers. If he cranes his neck, he can watch Bruno walk past.

"Hold still," Giorno murmurs, he's got Gold Experience's hands hovering at Abbacchio's throat.

Abbacchio doesn't want him to screw up the healing, so he complies, albeit with a glare. If he could speak he'd snap at him to hurry it up.

Buccellati is making a beeline for the bathroom, and it may well be the only time Abbacchio can get him alone to ask him why the fuck his leg isn't bleeding. And why the fuck he hasn't bothered to so much as zip his own wound closed.

As Buccellati goes, though, Abbacchio gets a better view of him. His gait is off, unless Abbacchio is imagining. Or rather, he's _not_ limping, and with a gaping gash in his leg, he should be, maybe… _something_ is weird, even if Abbacchio can't put his finger on what it is, exactly.

He swallows, and when it doesn't hurt he notices that Giorno's done healing him. Gold Experience has dispersed, but Giorno is still crouched too close, for some reason – glancing at him, Abbacchio realizes that it's because Giorno is _also_ staring after Buccellati. There's an odd look on his face that's not _quite_ worry, but his brows are furrowed and his mouth is downturned all the same.

Well, that cinches it then. If the great _Giorno Giovanna_ also thinks something is wrong, Abbacchio definitely has to investigate.

So he pushes to his feet, knocking into Giorno a bit as he goes. "I'm gonna go clean up, too," he says, which isn't a total lie. There's blood tacky between his fingers, and he can feel it beneath his chin, warm down his front. Gross.

"Good idea," Narancia chirps, looking awful pleased with himself as he reclines on a restaurant chair, "you look like you were attacked by a vampire."

"Vampires wouldn't leave this much of a mess." Abbacchio is already halfway to the bathroom as he responds (and Giorno must've replenished his blood, because he doesn't feel at all dizzy anymore).

"Huh." Narancia sounds genuinely contemplative. "Do you think vampires are neat eaters, Giorno?"

"I don't know."

"I always wondered why they didn't just rip peoples' throats out – get the blood faster, y'know?"

"I think they would prefer to be subtle, in most cases…."

Abbacchio closes that conversation off as he closes the bathroom door, all of his focus zeroing in on Buccellati the moment he sees him.

And boy does he look…bad. Not himself. _Wrong_. Abbacchio's feet are stuck to the floor just inside the bathroom, watching him. Bright blue eyes are lifeless as Bruno stares at himself in the mirror. The faucet runs full blast over his hands, but he's not even trying to scrub them, letting them hang limp in the flow.

He could be spaced out, except for the fact that he's not moving _at all_. Slumped forward, not even twitching – and – and his gaze is so _empty_ in that mirror –

Abbacchio forces his feet to carry him forward. Something that feels an awful lot like fear has made a home in his chest, spreading fast. "Buccellati," he says, once he's closer. No response. He wants to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he's mindful of his own blood-soaked state. "Buccellati!"

This time, Bruno's shoulders flinch, and he turns away from the mirror. "Oh – Abbacchio." Blue eyes blink at him once, heavy and slow. "I'm sorry, I was lost in thought."

No matter how much he wants to call bullshit, Abbacchio catches himself nodding. His tongue is stuck to the inside of his mouth, and he winds up stepping away to his own sink. As he washes his hands he watches Buccellati do the same out of the corner of his eye; he's got the cold water on full blast, now, and is working on getting the blood out of his white suit sleeves.

Watching Buccellati doesn't make for any kind of distraction, of course, and by now Abbacchio knows he's only prolonging the inevitable. But he does spot a little hole going through one of Buccellati's hands that doesn't seem to be bleeding either.

In all honesty, Abbacchio could have gone without the confirmation that he wasn't just seeing things and it wasn't just his own blood loss playing tricks on him. Buccellati really _isn't_ bleeding.

Abbacchio has to say something before they leave this bathroom.

Once his own hands and sleeves are sufficiently clean, he grabs handfuls of paper towels to wet so he can get to work on his chest and neck. Buccellati is already drying off by now, and Abbacchio is having trouble _not_ staring at that _not_ bleeding wound on his hand. Or the unnatural set of his shoulders. Or the crooked clip in his hair.

"Bruno," he says (after a careful work up and too much deliberation).

Buccellati turns to him, paper towels pressed over his left sleeve as he squeezes it dry. His face is schooled serious in true Buccellati fashion – although there's something else to his expression. Some soft sort of edge brought on by his first name, Abbacchio thinks. "Yes?"

Another deep breath for Abbacchio before he can continue with a simple, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." The answer is immediate, but Buccellati's shoulders drop along with his gaze. He takes the couple steps to the trash can, tossing his paper towels.

"No," Abbacchio blurts, darting in front of him, because _no way_ is Bruno pulling this now. "No, you're not. You…."

A tiny smile works its way to the corner of Buccellati's mouth, and he glances up to make eye contact – but he doesn't say anything in his defense. Just stares. With a smile that looks sadder and sadder the longer he holds it.

One of the cracks in Abbacchio's heart splits open further. The worst of the blood is gone from his chest, and like hell can he concentrate on finishing now, so it'll have to do. He shoves his sopping, bloody paper towels into the trash, too, and stands firm in front of Buccellati.

"What's wrong, Bruno?" He means for it to sound like a demand, but it comes out as more of a plea. Shit dammit.

"I'm f –"

" _Don't_." Maybe Abbacchio isn't being specific enough. If Bruno is going to continue to dodge the broad questions, maybe it's better to narrow it down to something more specific. Something he can't just brush off. Starting with the glaringly obvious: "Why isn't your leg –"

Buccellati goes immediately stone-faced. "It's nothing."

"You're –" _You're lying, you're being unfair, you're an asshole –_ you know I love you _, so tell me what's wrong._ All of these cycle through Abbacchio's head, but he can't bring himself to say any of them. Instead he calls up another detail that makes his gut squirm. "You didn't eat lunch."

"I'm tired," – as if that's any reason for not eating or _bleeding_ – "that's all."

With that pathetic excuse, Buccellati tries to step around him, but Abbacchio moves into his path.

Notably, Buccellati stares at his chin rather than meeting his eyes.

"Leone." That's all he says. As if the sound of his name alone will make Abbacchio go soft and drop this.

Two can play at that game, though, so joke's on him. From here, Abbacchio has a good view of that crooked hair pin, and in a deliberate move, he reaches up with both hands to unclasp it. He holds Bruno's braid in place as he refastens the ornament parallel to the other, as it should be, tweaking until it's just right.

"Bruno." He lets his left hand drop onto Buccellati's shoulder, while his right tucks a strand of hair behind Buccellati's ear. " _Please_ , tell me what's –"

Buccellati steps away from him, leaving his hands hovering. "We don't have much time," he says, tone clipped. He's at least looking at Abbacchio now, cold though his eyes may be. "We need to move."

And then he's out the door.

Abbacchio hesitates, pushing down his frustration. That was likely the only chance he'll get to confront Buccellati for a while, and he went and flubbed it. Fan-fucking-tastic.

For now, he has no choice but to follow him back into the fray.

Giorno knows something – or, at least, he _suspects_ something. That much was obvious already, but twice on their way to the airport, Abbacchio had made eye contact with him after both of them had been staring at Buccellati.

There sure had been a lot to observe, too. The way Buccellati had swayed too much with the rocking of the boat, and his tight grip on its edge had telling enough all on their own. Not to mention the way he'd stumbled getting out.

Ordinarily, it'd piss Abbacchio off (and, to be honest, it still kind of does) to see that worried line between Giorno's brows directed at Buccellati so brazenly, but right now Abbacchio finds himself longing for a chance to talk to Giorno and compare notes.

The idea of consulting Giorno puts a bad taste in his mouth, sure, but also…for Buccellati, Abbacchio has done worse things. Would do even _worse_ things.

…Sitting in the cockpit with only Moody Blues for company is a great place to overthink. Why does Abbacchio always draw this short straw?

Seriously – there are all kinds of instruments, and dials, buttons, switches, lights…shit like that, but he doesn't know what any of it does. It's best to sit back and let Moody Blues pilot this plane, and god if only life were that simple.

 _There's something wrong with Buccellati_ , and he won't tell Abbacchio what it is. So it's probably something bad.

Giorno knows. He isn't saying anything either. So it's _definitely_ something bad.

Talking to either Mista or Narancia is out of the question – they'd freak out, escalate things – and Trish, Abbacchio doesn't even consider.

No. He'll puzzle this out himself, after they've found the Boss's identity. Until then, he has to keep that top priority – afterwards, he'll discuss with Giorno… but only after he finds another moment to try again to confront –

The door to the cockpit opens, and Abbacchio turns to see Buccellati slipping inside, the turtle tucked in one of his arms. He's _frowning_ , looking paler than ever in a shaken sort of way.

"What is it?" Abbacchio asks, compulsively.

"Stand attack."

" _What_?" Jerking to his feet, Abbacchio is across the small space in half a step, all previous thoughts scattering.

"It activated after the user's death," Buccellati explains, and he sounds harried in a way that might go unnoticed if you didn't know him well enough. Fortunately, Abbacchio does. "Narancia, Mista, and Giorno are all…" tangible hesitation, not good, "…incapacitated. They're in the turtle."

"Holy shit." Abbacchio's hands make an aborted motion in Buccellati's general direction – to grab the turtle or him, he's not sure. "Do you need me to –"

"No," Bruno moves around him, placing the turtle in Abbacchio's previously occupied seat, "Giorno took care of it." _Of course he did._ "I need your Moody Blues to keep flying the plane. Is everything still working alright? We broke a window…."

He's glancing over Moody Blues and the controls as if he knows how any of this works – Abbacchio barely understands it, but he does at least know: "Everything's fine up here."

"Good."

And Abbacchio wants to press for details – what could this stand possibly be to take out three of them in such a short time, how bad are they "incapacitated" exactly, why is Trish currently alone back there – but.

But Buccellati's shoulders are slumped, and forget tired, he seems _exhausted_.

And they're alone together, again.

"Buccellati –"

"The stand attacks anything that moves, so we may not be out of danger yet." Still facing away from Abbacchio, Bruno is clutching the back of the copilot seat, head bowed. "Stay on your guard. I need to get back to Trish."

Small as the cockpit is, Abbacchio only has to move a little to the side to block Buccellati's path to the door when he tries to leave. "Bruno."

Disappointment is clear on Buccellati's face. It's muddled with general worry and trying to be stoic, sure, but Abbacchio has spent altogether too long staring at his capo's face. Bright blue eyes blink at him just once, eyelids _still_ unnaturally slow. He doesn't try to get around Abbacchio.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Buccellati's gaze darts away, over Abbacchio's shoulder and towards the door. "I'm fine. The stand never got to me."

"That's not what I mean," fuck, Abbacchio's about ready to grab him and shake the truth out of him if he avoids these questions much longer, "and you know it."

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, eyes settling heavy back on Abbacchio, "please drop it."

It's undeniably selfish to be so worried over only Bruno, but Abbacchio is all too aware that he won't worry about himself. (Also, Buccellati is being selfish in his own way here as well, by not letting Abbacchio worry over him. So there.) "I _won't_. You look terrible."

And he _does_. His eyes have this sunken look to them with dark circles beneath, his skin has taken on an unhealthy pallor, and he's not _moving_ right. Now that Abbacchio's noticed the discrepancies, they're all he can see.

"Thank you," Buccellati deadpans, sounding almost like his old self. "Now please let me out. I have to make sure that Trish is –"

Having heard enough, Abbacchio shoves his hand over Buccellati's mouth, which sure does serve to shut him up. His face is altogether nonplussed; Abbacchio stares him down in turn.

They stay at a stalemate like that for too many seconds, and that's when Abbacchio realizes.

There aren't any puffs of breath hitting his hand.

No matter how long he waits, he feels nothing.

Buccellati isn't breathing.

Abbacchio yanks his hand away from Buccellati's mouth in favor of pressing his fingers to his neck, right on his pulse point – or…where it should be, anyway.

Mouth set in a hard line, Buccellati doesn't bother to try and move away.

Maybe, on some level, Abbacchio's time on the police force is coming back to him. When you come across a body in a battered state, checking for a pulse is a typical first course of action. Especially if they aren't breathing.

He tries to ignore his rising panic at how closely Buccellati resembles a corpse right now. He _couldn't_ be. Right? Corpses aren't in the habit of walking around, after all.

…But there…sure isn't anything under Abbacchio's fingers. No steady beat. Not even a single thrum. Pushing his fingers in harder doesn't yield any better results, nor does trying the other side. By now his own heartbeat is more than making up for Bruno's lack of one. Panic is stirring in Abbacchio's chest as he makes a grab for Buccellati's wrist. His skin is so _cold_.

"Leone," Buccellati mutters, and Abbacchio can feel his stare, "don't –"

Abbacchio shakes his head, focus zeroing in on Buccellati's wrist. He doesn't want to hear whatever he's going to say. Instead he concentrates on finding a pulse, swapping to the other wrist when this one is also….

His vision is tunneling, blurring at the edges as he stares at his fingers pressed to Bruno's wrist. There's nothing. No matter how long he keeps this up that won't change. And he can't _breathe_ , because Buccellati's _not_.

"Leone – Leone, stay with me, please."

That voice is distant, though he knows it's coming from right in front of him. Abbacchio closes his eyes, shakes his head to clear it. No pulse means….

"Leone, I need you to keep Moody Blues going."

Abbacchio opens his eyes, and sucks in a breath. An order he can handle, and he follows it almost on reflex. Moody Blues is fine – still dutifully on rewind, because even while panicked Abbacchio isn't negligent enough to disable his stand in the middle of something important.

…It was _maybe_ a close call, though. Especially considering that he's just found out that Bruno is –

"You're _dead_."

The words fall out too easily, all things considered.

Buccellati's mouth twitches. "Only my body."

"You…you can't be." Knees weak, Abbacchio is wishing that stupid turtle wasn't in his seat. This isn't the kind of news you're supposed to take standing up, he doesn't think.

"Oh," Buccellati says, and his tone is infuriatingly professional, "I've tried to kick start it, like this –" here he demonstrates by unzipping his chest, reaching inside and wrapping a hand around his own heart, squeezing a few times, "– but no luck. I'm…already decaying."

And Abbacchio feels like he's going to be sick. Slumping against the wall of the cockpit, he can't look away. "H – how –"

"I've been like this since my fight with the boss," Buccellati says, head bowed. He's doing up his zipper and smoothing the fabric of his suit as if it's the most normal thing in the world, and the hand that had been around his heart is notably clean. "Please don't worry about it…."

"You – you fucking – you weren't gonna te…" Eyes stinging, Abbacchio tries and fails to shoot a glare at Buccellati through his tears. He swallows. "You weren't gonna tell me?"

"I knew you would be upset," Buccellati says, eyes downcast and voice bizarrely quiet, "I didn't want you to worry."

Who does he think he is, trying to spare Abbacchio worry? Who does he think he is, _dying_ for a mission and leaving Abbacchio to…to…. And how could he think not saying anything makes it _better_? "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"It was worth a try." To his credit, Buccellati's expression is just shy of sheepish as he shrugs one shoulder.

"Of course I'm worried." Frustration and crippling concern are at war in Abbacchio's chest. He halfway wants to ream Buccellati out for keeping this to himself, but in the grand scheme of things his upset pales in comparison to the overwhelming fact that _Buccellati is dead_. "We need to _do_ something!"

Buccellati's eyes are sad and regretful as he speaks. "There's nothing we _can_ do."

Abbacchio's breath hitches. This isn't _fair_. On so many levels, it just isn't fair. "Then –"

"My soul is detached from my body. I am living on borrowed time," Buccellati explains, sounding less and less businesslike as he goes. The hand that reaches out is chilled against Abbacchio's chest, but he sure as fuck isn't going to push it away. "I…" Bruno's throat bobs on a swallow, "I can't even feel, anymore, but I'm sure your heart is still beating."

The dam breaks at that. A tear drips down Abbacchio's face – and is very soon joined by plenty of others. Shit. He can't even bring himself to reach up and scrub them away, he feels so frozen.

"I don't know how long I have left," Bruno says, "I need you to help me finish this, before I go."

Those words punch Abbacchio straight in the chest, and his heart squeezes like Buccellati's got a hand in there. Vision watery as it is, he can tell that Buccellati's minute expressions have gone fully remorseful, and that only makes it _worse_.

Abbacchio will help, of course he will, but he'd much rather get to keep Buccellati at the end of it. His throat hurts and his eyes sting and _why_ can't he force himself to say any of that out loud.

That cold hand migrates to Abbacchio's overheated cheek, fingers clumsily brushing away his tears as they fall. "Leone, for me, please."

And now Abbacchio has to rein it in. But he _can't_ – this is such a shit end of the deal. Buccellati of all people doesn't deserve whatever the hell kind of bullshit this is. He deserves to relax somewhere. He deserves to be _happy_ , but instead he's….

Sniffling, Abbacchio still can't make his mouth work. Buccellati's free hand comes up to wipe at his other cheek, and all Abbacchio can manage is a pained noise, because this _hurts_.

Buccellati, thank fuck, says nothing. His mouth is set in a small grimace, and he looks to be hurting, too – and all of a sudden Abbacchio feels guilty.

Here he is, breaking down, sucking all the comfort from Bruno when he's not even the one dead on his feet this time.

So he presses a palm overtop of one of Bruno's hands, squeezing the cold appendage and keeping it in place. He scrubs at his face with his opposite sleeve, nudging Buccellati's other hand away with the action.

"It's not fair," he says, voice wobbling. It really isn't what he meant to say, but it's what's running on a loop in his head, so it's what slips out.

"…I'm sorry."

Abbacchio shakes his head vigorously. That's not what he _meant_. "You don't…that's not…" He huffs out a sigh, frustrated with himself. "I want you to _live_."

That gets a sad smile out of Buccellati, and his fingers twitch under Abbacchio's hand. "I'm already dead."

Those words make the pain in Abbacchio's chest increase tenfold. It seems like Buccellati's already accepted his lot in life here, so for now Abbacchio is going to have to ignore the fact that his own world is crumbling.

There's work to do, and Bruno needs him. No matter how much he wants to argue, he can't; no matter how much he wants to keep crying, he won't.

Instead, he turns his head to press a kiss onto Buccellati's palm. "I'll help you," he promises into the skin.

Buccellati steps closer, nudging Abbacchio to face forward before he leans up to brush their mouths together. The motion is a familiar comfort, and even though it's cold and stiff it's still undeniably _Bruno_ , so Abbacchio returns it without a thought. When he pulls away, they linger close, Abbacchio's breath mingling with…nothing.

Buccellati's lips are stained with a hint of black, and Abbacchio can't resist kissing him again. He cups Buccelati's face in his hands, ignoring the chill of his skin as he licks over a full bottom lip. Those hands are back to resting on his chest, cold over his cleavage.

Even though Abbacchio knows it's stupid, he tries to pour as much feeling as he can into the kiss. It's easier than clumsy words that never come out right.

This time, when they separate, Abbacchio pulls back to find a clear tear track down Buccellati's cheek. Abbacchio swipes it aside with his thumb, staring down at it.

"…I didn't know I could still do that," Buccellati mumbles, weary eyes focused on the wet spot on Abbacchio's thumb.

Thousands of emotions are swirling in Abbacchio's gut. Pressing his lips to Buccellati's hair does little to quell them, but it's better than nothing.

"Thank you, Leone."

And Abbacchio wants to start crying all over again. To throw a fit and punch something. Or maybe pull Bruno into another kiss. Even apologize over and over and over again for not being good enough – for not being _enough_ , period. To beg Buccellati to tell him that this is all a joke. Something, _anything_.

But he can't. That's not what Bruno needs, and it's not what he's asking for. He has one last request. One last order. And Abbacchio's already signed on for it.

So he steels himself.

"Of course."

Buccellati reaches for him, tangling his fingers with Abbacchio's. Ducking his head a little, Buccellati wipes at his face and then his mouth with a sleeve. The fabric comes away with more black spots, but he doesn't seem to mind.

While he still can, Abbacchio drinks in Buccellati's presence. The fingers of his empty hand twitch with a desire to grab onto Buccellati and never let go (because if he does let go, he feels like he'll lose him forever). For now he memorizes the strong lines of his face, and those determined eyes when they meet his own.

"Leone," Buccellati says, "you know I lo –"

The moment is broken by Moody Blues' voice reading out the report that they're losing altitude – _fast_ , and Abbacchio's stomach swoops as he turns away, going for the controls with Buccellati close behind.

* * *

 **A/N:** This was the first one I wrote, so it got the most editing time, and I think that shows, uh,

Titled after the song Time Stops by Starbenders. Gives me BruAbba feels.

Thanks for a great week, and thanks for reading!


End file.
